


Seven Days to Heaven

by FAF_Productions



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient China, Falling In Love, First Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Love Story, M/M, One Shot, Personal Growth, Poetry, Premodern East Asia, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13171305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FAF_Productions/pseuds/FAF_Productions
Summary: Sicheng falls in love with a man from across the sea.





	Seven Days to Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic for over a year now T_T (mostly because I procrastinated it for like 10 months lol). Although I LOVE college AU romcoms, it's a bit hard to find romance fics in the NCT fic community, so I decided to write one >.< My goal with this was to tell a simple story of two young men falling in love~ The story takes place in my own fictional of take on premodern China (don't kill me if there are some inaccuracies!). 
> 
> There's also a lot of poetry peppered throughout the fic, and if you're wondering why there aren't any credits, it's because they're all original pieces that I wrote ^^;; (its kind of embarrassing tbh pls be nice T_T)
> 
> I wanted to get this out by Christmas, but close enough hehe. Hope you guys like it! ^o^
> 
> Official OST: I Will by Zhang Li Yin (it's a beautiful song about love, there are also translations of the lyrics out there!)

It was the break of dawn. As the golden sun rose steadily in the Eastern Sky, so too did a young, slender-bodied boy by the name of Dong Sicheng. Reflexively, he twisted his arms and legs in different directions to stretch his body. A routine etched into his limbs by now. Bend now, break later. What Sicheng’s father used to say to him as a young boy. He took in a deep breath of cold morning air. _Bà._

 

The memory of his father drifted across his mind’s eye like a ripple through a pond. Started with a small splash, made waves, then stopped. You couldn’t control the ripple of memories. Sicheng’s mind and spirit, still as water, disturbed by rocks thrown not too long ago.

 

His father was dead. His father, Dong Sihan, had been a high-ranking general in the Imperial Army, serving a fairly important base at the Northern Border. Though he’d only been in and out of Sicheng’s life growing up, the moments he shared with his father were ones he cherished, and he looked back on them fondly. Three months ago, he'd received a letter from the Imperial Army bearing tidings that his father had died in a raid at the border from the steppe barbarians. The letter noted that an arrow had impaled his heart as he was asleep. The news came some time later than his actual death. Letters took time to travel. Sorrow, however, did not. Sorrow seeds in your heart and spreads like wildfire, consumes the spirit. Burns down memories of learning calligraphy under autumn plum blossoms or listening to old legends recounted by a deep voice beneath a starlit sky. Memories may remain, but in ashes they are no longer as beautiful as they once were.

 

He’d never known his mother. As his father told him (just once) before, she had died as she gave birth to him nineteen years past. His father, a loyal and sentimental man, never took on a second wife, though he had every right to if he so wanted. Instead, he’d chosen to raise his only son alone, to live a life as uncomplicated as could be for an army General, though he did eventually take on several concubines. Nearly every man of status did. Upon learning of his death three months ago, the women had left the family compound to seek lives elsewhere, likely as dancing girls in any of the countless pleasure houses peppered throughout the city. They were older now, but still beautiful women. There was no point in letting their life waste away for a man that had passed into another realm. Their duty did not extend so far.

 

Only his father’s faithful servants, Dai Shan and Zhou Feng, remained. They had been serving the Dong family since before Sicheng was born, and were both very old. Sicheng thinks that even they have forgotten just how old they were. They were loyal to his father, and loved Sicheng as their own son. They would stay with him until their last days under Heaven.

 

Sicheng lit a candle by the altar for his father, as he did every morning, and prayed. Sorrow seeding, sorrow spreading. You did what you could to lead a righteous life, but fate is capricious, and pays no mind to human sorrow. Happiness is a blessing.

 

✧

 

Luoyang had been bustling with activity since sun-rise. The normally spacious main streets of the glorious Tang Dynasty capital, which could fit ten royal horses side-by-side, were filled with crowds of people. Tomorrow morning would mark the beginning of the Peony Festival, a seven-day-long annual festival held in the Capital throughout which the people of China would celebrate Spring, the August Emperor (may he live a thousand years), and China’s peonies, the king of flowers and much loved by the Chinese people. The peonies in Luoyang were regarded as the most beautiful in the world. They sprouted by the millions in the numerous gardens peppered in and around the city, and flowing out into the long, meandering hills of yellow-green grass beyond, created a sea of colour. They were subtle, gentle, represented honour and beauty. Could be given to a lover as a gift. Placed lovingly in a daughter’s hair. Steeped into an aromatic floral tea. Given to a mother as a sign of filial piety. Or a father.

 

The festival took place when the peonies of Luoyang were in full bloom, when life in the world was at its most vibrant. It was one of the few times of year where people of all status could somewhat live outside the expectations placed upon them by birthright or by society, and simply dwell in the festivities as a man (or woman) of China. In Luoyang, the center of the world.

 

Merchants of all kinds were busily erecting their stands by the side of the road in front of their homes. For those that did not live in the Capital, booths were set up in the marketplace. Or, in any free space remaining that they could find. Luoyang was a big city. There would be hundreds of thousands of merchants mingling here from all of parts of China and beyond, trading their wares and treasures, brought in from ships hailing from across the Eastern Sea or from the Silk Roads that trickled into China from the Far West. There would also be farmers, peasants, soldiers, families of all walks of life making their way to Luoyang to see the peonies, to experience the lights and tastes of the Capital in all its Spring glory.

 

Sicheng saw all this and more while walking to his dance academy across the city. There would not be practice today, not with the Peony Festival beginning tomorrow, but he didn’t feel like sitting idle at home while waiting for the festival to begin, and his widowed teacher would surely be there at the academy to watch him as he danced. After her husband had passed, she spent all her days there. That was her sole purpose in life now.

 

His family compound was near the Emperor’s palace, but outside the palace gates. Families up to a seventh degree of relation to the Emperor were allowed to live in the palace compound, and the so-called Imperial Clan received a handsome allowance every month. Those families lived easy lives, much to the (not-so-secret) despise of others outside its walls. The Dong family was ninth in relation. Though they did not receive the same benefits, they received, still, a regular allowance of a comfortable sum. His parents were deceased, but Sicheng would continue to receive these sums for life, as long as the current Emperor would reign.

 

If he wanted, he could lead a simple life, like those palace aristocrats, a life filled only with game and pleasure. Play polo with his other would-be Imperial Clanmates. Write poetry with the best ink, inkstone, horse-tail brushes, hibiscus-stalk paper. Visit pleasure houses and enjoy singing girls to _Pípá_ and wine. Find a wife one summer day. Have sons. But Sicheng didn’t want that kind of life, wanted to find more meaning in his. He didn’t want to study for the civil service examinations, either - the court was not for him. It was too cold, too severe. Too stressful. And he was not the kind of man that could calculate and connive. Other men would fight those subtle, life-changing battles at court, make decisions for the rest of China.

 

Sicheng loved to dance. He learned from an esteemed academy in Luoyang that he’d joined when he was a little boy, with the support of his father. His teacher, Lady Xiang, was a strict but patient lady. Would not give special (or worse) treatment to him simply for being a boy, an Imperial relative no less. Had placed him under the harsh standards of Traditional Dance that would be expected of any other student.

 

Dancing was uncommon for men. Some may think it improper for a man to dance. After all, dance was what women did to provide pleasure for men, what they could offer to men in dim light amidst heavy perfume, slender and graceful bodies moving beneath soft silk. Under the spell of soft music, red wine. Lust. But his father had ignored those who gave him their criticisms, let his son grow into his passion. What difference was there, between dancing to the rhythm of a song and to the twisting of a sword?

 

And so, on that early spring morning until the beginnings of that same day’s dusk, Sicheng danced under Lady Xiang’s watchful eye, to songs spoken aloud from the Dynasty’s finest and most treasured poets along with the soft strumming of her _Pípá_ , echoing ancient sentiments from thousands of years ago.

 

_Thousands and thousands of regrets._

 

_The most painful one stays in a remote corner._

 

_Mountain and moon know nothing_

_about what is on my mind._

 

_Rain and wind blow Spring away_

_far over the rolling hills._

 

_The emerald clouds sway slantwise in the sky._

 

✧

 

During the Peony Festival, it was entirely normal for those that travelled from beyond the capital to be offered homestay in a civilian’s home inside the city’s gates. The foreigner typically offers a small fee to the patron of the home, or the patron himself might ask this of his guest, but this courtesy was not law, nor strictly required. There was no crime or deception to be had the Peony Festival. It was against the will of the Son of Heaven, would be a shame to the Emperor and the Glory of China.

 

This was how Sicheng had come to open his door to a man with almond-shaped eyes that same night, during the full bloom of spring, the night before the festival.

 

“Greetings my lord,” the man bowed formally. “Forgive my indecency... but would you be so kind as to offer a place to retreat for the evening?”

 

Sicheng was dressed in his evening gown, getting ready to eat his dinner prepared by Shan, the better cook of his two servants. He felt a little sheepish - he hadn’t opened his doors like this to anyone in a long time. At least, not after his father’s death. He’d become a recluse, and kept only to his servants and Lady Xiang. The man was holding a pack over his shoulder, probably filled with items to be sold throughout the week. Likely a merchant, perhaps from a prefecture outside the Capital. Sicheng was a little impressed that the man had the courage to ask for homestay in his compound, as it was clearly marked with Imperial relation. It had been very rare in years past for visitors to stay in his family’s compound, though of course, his father opened their doors for all that had asked.

 

This created ripples again.

 

“Sure,” Sicheng said with a slight smile. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You can stay the week if you want - my home is rather empty at the moment.” Feng was behind Sicheng, standing politely with his arms crossed and hidden in the long sleeves of his robe. Sicheng turned around, looking back at him kindly, “Feng, would you please prepare the guest room for this gentleman? And tell Shan to prepare an extra bowl of rice.”

 

Feng nodded courteously and shuffled down the hall in haste.

 

“Thank you,” the stranger bowed again. “You are too kind.”

 

Sicheng ushered him through the door. “Please, no need for formalities. My status is not so high as to demand such courtesies.” Sicheng glanced at his pack. It was large, looked heavy. The man must be exhausted. “You can put your belongings down in the guest room. It’s the third room to the right. Feng will prepare you a small bed. You can wash in our basin, in the courtyard. But first, we will eat. Shan is a wonderful cook.”

 

“You are too kind,” the man repeated once more, in his deep voice. His face was bright, twinkling like a constellation. Then, suddenly, a hint of inquiry. “My apologies,” he took another look at Sicheng with eyes as clear as spring itself, “what is your name?”

 

“My name is Dong Sicheng, son of Dong Sihan.” Sicheng flinched a little at the mention of his father’s name aloud. It’s been a while. “And you?”

 

The man (or boy - he looked Sicheng’s age, after all) replied, like a song, “the name’s Zai-Xuan. But in Goryeo, where I come from, it’s pronounced a bit more like Jae-Hyun. Of the Jung family. Nice to meet you.”

 

So, he was a merchant from Goryeo. Not notably uncommon during the Peony Festival, but Sicheng had never spoken to a man from the peninsula. Or maybe he had. They did speak Chinese after all (who didn’t?), albeit with a noticeable accent.

 

Jaehyun smiled. Like Sicheng, he was young, but at the brink of manhood. They were the same height, had a similar build, but Sicheng was a little more slender, had a dancer’s body, while Jaehyun was heavier built, broader shoulders and chest. He was extremely handsome. Had very light skin, reminded Sicheng of silk and alabaster, and eyes that when he smiled, became shaped like crescent-moons a quarter full.

 

That familiar feeling. Something seeding, and spreading. This time, not sorrow.

 

✧

 

Over supper, Sicheng and Jaehyun learned that they had more in common than either of them could have thought. Was it possible to find a man whose life mirrored yours from across the sea?

 

Sicheng had told Jaehyun that he wasn’t studying for the civil service examinations like everyone else, that he wanted to dance, and always had. Was a little reluctant to tell Jaehyun about that, a little afraid that he might receive the same reaction that he had so many times before, but Jaehyun was impressed, curious, even in awe that Sicheng learned Traditional Chinese dance since young. It was refreshing, he’d said, to see a man follow the path he wanted, despite the disapproval of others. Then, Sicheng learned that Jaehyun, too, had found a passion in something unconventional. Jaehyun loved pottery, made a living of it. Shaped all sorts of things, useful and decorative, from clay and mud on a spinning wheel, shaping, creating with his hands. Accented them with gemstones, metals, and jewels. Painted them. An activity usually reserved for women in Goryeo (and in China), he’d said between sips of oolong, but it was what he was good at and what he loved to do. Came from something found in the spirit, called passion.

 

“So, I’m here to visit the festival to sell and trade my own works,” Jaehyun continued, between mouthfuls of rice. “I brought with me a bunch of teacups, pots, plates, bowls... and all sorts of figurines that I made back in Goryeo. I painted some of them, lined others with lacquer and celadon from my hometown. Practical and elegant, thought a little extravagant. Hopefully, I can trade them for some Chinese ceramics. Fine China is coveted in Goryeo.”

 

Sicheng nodded. “I think you have nothing to worry about. I’m sure you’ll make quite the earning here this week. Do you have a good spot by the marketplace?” Jaehyun had said earlier that it was his first time in Luoyang, and his first time at the Peony Festival.

 

“Do you know the Town Square? I should have a spot next to a crowded eatery there, in the North-East corner,” the silk-skinned merchant scrunched his nose, as if trying to squeeze out a faint recollection from earlier that day. “Little Xuan’s Noodles?”

 

“That,” Sicheng took a sip of tea, “is an excellent spot. You have no idea how busy Little Xuan’s is during the Peony Festival. Their noodles are delicious, and in my opinion, the finest in Luoyang. The chef there almost rivals my own Shan.” Sicheng looked back at Shan, who was standing by the doorway with an almost-smile on his old face. Shan really was a great chef. He’d cooked _Gāi lán_ , lotus root, and steamed river fish with ginger and chives and coriander for them tonight. Even accompanied by oolong tea with flowers of osmanthus (they usually had jasmine, but perhaps Shan had opted for something different with the festival beginning tomorrow). Fish was what Sicheng loved to eat the most.

 

Now it was Jaehyun’s turn to nod. “If Little Xuan’s is anything like Shan’s cooking as you say, then I’m sure both their business and mine will do just fine.”

 

Sicheng smiled again. For some reason, his face wouldn’t stop doing that whenever Jaehyun spoke. “But if I may ask, where is the rest of your family? Surely, your father and mother ought to join us. I feel dishonourable if I am to stay without giving them proper greeting.”

 

Sicheng’s smile faltered. He looked down at his bowl, played around with a few grains of rice before taking a breath to respond, looking back up at Jaehyun in the eyes, eyes that began to waver a little at the possibility that bounds were overstepped. “Both my parents are dead,” Sicheng spoke, unbeknownst to himself, so quietly that he was almost whispering. My mother died as I was born, and my father died three months ago, by the hands of the steppe barbarians. He was a General in the Imperial Army.”

 

Jaehyun’s features fell, his face blanking. “I… I’m so sorry,” he said in a small voice, stunned. “I should have known! It should have been clear to me, how you opened the door to your home, I should have--”

 

“No,” Sicheng cut in, “it’s fine. It’s really not your fault in any way.” And it wasn’t. Fate, like a river, flows where it will, and we are carried with it or left behind. Not even the Emperor, with the Will of Heaven, knows the path that the stars have laid out for us.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jaehyun said again, looking into Sicheng’s eyes. “But perhaps, I may share my own truth?” The merchant paused for a moment. “My parents are dead as well. Well, at least I believe so. I never knew my mother, and my father never spoke about her. My father was a fisherman. In Goryeo, we lived in a port city by the sea - one day, his ship left, and never returned. They say,” Jaehyun inhaled sharply, “that spirits that drown in the sea are never laid to rest.”

 

Sicheng froze. He looked into Jaehyun’s eyes, the deep, dark-brown spheres that offered a glimpse into his soul. Jaehyun stared back at Sicheng, let him look into his eyes that were peering into Sicheng’s own. The two men, locked in the other’s gaze, each glimpsing for the first time, a reflection of himself. The pain that a boy could carry, having to walk his own path without a mother to care for him, a father to guide him. Finding purpose again, in a passion others did not understand.

 

You could, of course, find a mirror across the sea. After all, fate is indiscriminate in that way. She does not know where the men that she wills to bring together were brought into the world, or cares. Only that they will, somehow, be brought together as she so wishes.

 

A river converges with another river that flows in the same direction to the sea.

 

❋❋❋

 

The first day of the festival was always the busiest. Sicheng awoke to the sound of laughter, bargaining, and lively conversation ringing softly in his ears from beyond his family compound’s walls. It was early morning, but the festival had already begun, and Jaehyun was already gone. He would have risen before the sun in order to make it to his selling post and prepare his streetside shop for the day. Borrowed a wooden cart for a fee. Arranged his finest pieces of pottery attractively for aristocrats, women, young children to see and awe and be intrigued. Warm up his voice to entice passers-by. Which, Sicheng though, must not take much effort for a handsome man like Jung Jaehyun of Goryeo.

 

His two servants were home, Shan preparing his morning meal and tea, and Feng out in the back clearing the basin and filling it with clean water for Sicheng to bathe. They did not have any other family (at least, none alive) to celebrate with. Ushered Sicheng to go to the festival alone. First time without his father by his side.

 

After praying and eating and washing, he put on his favourite tunic. Lapis-coloured and laced with silk from Arabia. His father had gotten it for him at last year’s Peony Festival, from a merchant that travelled to the glorious Luoyang from the very, very Far West. His father had said it made him look as handsome and dashing as the cosmos, even mysterious, like the moon peeking through the night clouds among a million stars. Sicheng put on a matching pair of silk pants and rabbit-fur shoes, and glanced at his reflection in the basin. He’d grown up a lot in three months. The death of someone you loved could do that to you.

 

Brushing aside these thoughts, he took a handful of copper and silver coins, placed them in his coin satchel, and shouted to his two servants that he’d be leaving for the day.

 

Stepping outside of his door amplified every sense.

 

So many people on the streets, crowded, leaving barely enough room to weave through without brushing shoulders with those next to you. The Emperor’s palace was decorated today, had grand red-and-gold banners bearing the words of blessings, rolled over the gates. Almost every home was adorned in the essence of Spring. Picked chrysanthemums and orchids lining doors like tiny bells. Windows open to baskets of sweet-pear and kumquat. Peonies - lots, and lots of peonies - of all shades, of red and white and everything in between. Everywhere, tied up in the hair of young girls, tucked into the pockets of old men, woven around gifts and trinkets carried by children running through the streets. It was the Peony Festival, after all.

 

Smells of all kinds, especially nearing the marketplace. Hot food, steaming, fresh, right off the fire into hungry mouths. Dry pastries, bitter-sweets, hot cakes, buns, flavours brought in from different parts of China and from foreign lands. Meats, of all kinds. Sicheng liked meat, but didn’t eat much of it. And definitely avoided meat of critters from the earth beneath their feet. No, back to the sweets. Could never have enough of those!

 

“Good day miss,” Sicheng said in a slightly raised voice to project over the humming of the market, “two lotus-seed-paste buns, please.” He took a few copper coins out from his pocket.

 

“Oh, handsome boy! Good day!” The old lady shouted delightfully when she looked up from her spot behind her food stand. She pulled out a tray of fresh buns from a small iron oven, lit over a flame burning with oak and maple. “Still hot!” The lady smiled, taking Sicheng’s coins in her wrinkled palm. She handed him three buns instead of two.

 

“Miss, I paid for two buns, not three.”

 

“Young boy,” the lady replied. “Handsome boy. I give to you, no trouble for me.”

 

You didn’t reject the kindness that people offered you out of the goodness of their hearts, even if the lady offering was old, worked hard, deserved the money. Even if it was just one extra bun, hot and fresh, with sweet lotus-seed-paste inside. You couldn’t disgrace someone like that. Especially not during a celebration such as this.

 

So, Sicheng smiled, slightly bowed his head in thanks, and placed an extra silver coin behind the counter when she turned back around. Much more than it would cost for a single sweet bun (silver was more precious than copper), but deserving for a small act of kindness. That was how the world was. Some people only take and take, and some people return the kindness you show to them. Who could say which of the two you were?

 

Sicheng ate the buns quickly. They were delicious. The dough was soft, fluffy, a little chewy the way he liked. The lotus seed paste was sweet but not excessively so, captured the flavour of the lotus, its Essence. Was the right texture. Melted in his mouth, still hot. Reminded him of his father.

 

He thought about visiting Jaehyun at his own shop in the market, but decided not to. He didn’t want to disturb his bargaining or business. He’d see him later, anyhow.

 

The sheer diversity and wonder of things being sold and traded was mind-boggling. Fine silk and tea from the South, wines and furs from the North. Beautiful carved-wood figures from the dexterous hands of craftsmen. Swords and bows from the forgeries of the finest blacksmiths. Horses, large, majestic horses, brought in from Arabia in the West. Even as wondrous and foreign as topaz and exotic spices from India. India! How far the merchant must have travelled to come here. Everyone coming to see the glory of Luoyang.

 

A new device called a compass. Apparently, it could tell you North-from-South and West-from-East even when one lost his bearings. In the green maze of a forest. In the open wild of the steppe. Or in the middle of the sea, from where a handsome man had come.

 

Something drew Sicheng’s attention to his left. A song sung by a beautiful girl, whilst playing the _Èrhú_ as if she were weaving silk with her hands.

 

_I am alone on this spring day_

_Thunderclouds seek my company_

 

_Time passes but my heart remembers_

_Wounds heal but are not forgotten_

 

_The peonies blossom under gray sky_

_Are these tears or raindrops?_

 

The melody is sad, the words hit home. Ripples in Sicheng’s heart. He manages to hold back the urge to cry, almost succumbing to the sorrow once more. It was improper conduct for a man to cry in public, in the presence of so many others. Perhaps he’d cry tonight if he could remember those words. Of course he would. Sicheng placed a few copper coins respectfully in front of the girl. She didn’t look at him as he did so. He walked onward.

 

Ahead he saw a group of people huddled around something (or someone) in the middle of the Town Square. Sicheng walked over briskly, curious to see what was causing the commotion.

 

In the middle of the small crowd was a short and stout man with an exotic bird on his shoulder. The man had very dark skin, and a long grey beard that reached almost his hips. He was wearing a black robe and held a cane firmly with both hands, a branch from a tree that looked older than the man himself. The bird was large, had a long curved beak, and colourful red and blue feathers. This old man was a storyteller, recounting an old legend. Or was it folklore? There would be debates later. Sicheng listened, and let the words carry him away, allowed himself to lose track of time. Immerse himself in a story that was not his.

 

✧

 

Sicheng told Jaehyun as much as he remembered of the story over dinner that night. It was the end of the day, and they were back in Sicheng’s home eating as they were yesterday, legs folded under a low table, sitting atop silk-embroidered cushions filled graciously with the feathers-of-swans. Jaehyun had laughed when Sicheng said he’d actually believed the tale, believed in ghosts. Shush, Sicheng had replied hurriedly, they might hear us. More laughter.

 

Shan surprised Sicheng when he told him he’d actually left the house that day. He’d only spent a short time outside, and only walked to the market and back. Actually, Sicheng was worried more than surprised. But Shan had made the trek to buy a duck to cook for dinner, said he was in the mood to cook good food. After all, there was a guest from Goryeo here! Feng had spent the day cleaning the house and practicing calligraphy as he usually did in their small courtyard out back. Both good men, much loved by Sicheng. Thinking of them, talking to them, reminded him that he wasn’t alone in the family home. Still had some men of the past with him, for better or for worse. It made him happy, gave him a reason to smile.

 

Jaehyun never ate duck like this before. Well, he never had duck before at all (he preferred hen). But Shan had cooked the duck in an unconventional way. The elderly servant roasted the bird slowly over fire, so its skin became crispy but its meat retained moisture. He then cut the meat into very thin slices, and they were to wrap the meat in a thin piece of buckwheat, place green onion or coriander and sweet oyster sauce inside along with the meat. It was the trend these days.

 

“Shan, this is great,” Sicheng said, licking his lips. “You should really open a restaurant.” He gave that a second thought. “Well, if you have the energy, that is. Were you okay going to the market yourself today? Did your hips give you any problems?” His eyes fell to his old servant’s waist, which he knew was hurting these days. “You shouldn’t have gone.”

 

Sicheng looked to Shan standing beside them at the table, who shook his head, and returned his concerned gaze with a smile. The old man held up a hand reassuringly as if to tell Sicheng that he was fine, his hips were fine, he shouldn’t worry. Shrugged and even chuckled a little at the restaurant comment. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t move like he used to.

 

Jaehyun took a sip of tea and perked up his shoulders. “君子之心不胜其小，而气量涵盖一世.” Even in Goryeo-accented Chinese, what he’d just said rang in Sicheng’s ears as clear as chimes in a gazebo by a still lake. _The heart of a gracious man cares not about his own desires, but of all that it encompasses._

 

❋❋❋

 

The next few days passed by like verses in a song. Soft whispers beneath moonlight, intimate glances without words, secret touches underneath tables. Flowing unhindered, like fish in a stream to the sea, yet lingering like the last stubborn autumn leaves before winter’s first frost.

 

❋❋❋

 

On the second day, Sicheng met with Jaehyun at sun-down as he was packing up shop, and treated him to a dinner at Little Xuan’s noodles (Jaehyun had wanted to see if it really did deserve being all the rage in Luoyang; apparently, it did, though Jaehyun still vouched that Shan’s cooking was the best). It was also Jaehyun’s first time eating Chinese _Lā miàn_ (“pulled noodles” Sicheng had explained) and needless to say, he most likely slurped up his bowl of noodles a little louder than he would’ve liked, much to Sicheng’s amusement. After dinner, they toured the festival’s night markets, stopping to eat every dessert possible, from hot buns carefully crafted in the shape of a peach to glutinous rice balls with red-bean and black-sesame filling in a sweet soup. Jaehyun’s favourite was the hot soft-tofu pudding, a little sweet with a bit of sugar and a little spicy with a pinch of ginger. Large red lanterns in every size and shape adorned the sides of the streets as if beckoning the forecoming of a god. Their soothing red lights, combined with the soft radiance of the moon, danced over every crevice of sandalwood and mahogany in the walls of the surrounding buildings, covering the ancient architecture in a blanket of red velvet. It was magical, it felt like a dream. And yet all Sicheng could see was Jaehyun’s princely face and his auburn hair blowing in the cool evening breeze.

 

As they ate, Sicheng gave a commentary of what each dessert was, what they meant to him, and each time Jaehyun would share his own favourite desserts from Goryeo that resembled them and that if Sicheng ever visited, that he should try. Sicheng wasn’t exactly sure what to call the emotion he was feeling that night - exchanging childhood memories with a boy from across the Eastern sea, in-between mouthfuls of sweets and under the red glow of the lanterns around them. As they walked by a merchant selling bronze mirrors, Sicheng saw his reflection, smiling, sincerely, probably for the first time since his father’s death. Must every emotion have a name? There must exist feelings that could be felt in this world, Sicheng thought, that are too complex, too nuanced to be described by human words. Could this be one of them? He wondered what Jaehyun saw.

 

✧

 

_I feel at ease when you are by my side._

 

❋❋❋

 

On the third day, Jaehyun decided to do his merchanting at night rather than during the day to see if business could be better with the night crowd. Sicheng took the opportunity to show Jaehyun a bit more of Luoyang while they had the chance to be together during sun-up. ‘Peacock Park’, though not the most extravagant park in the Capital, was in Sicheng’s opinion, the most robustly beautiful, and, for him, most memorable. It featured long, winding trails through rolling hills and grassy fields peppered with blue iris, wild rose, and of course, peonies in red, yellow, orange, and white, shining in the sun like gemstones. Paths were lined with ancient trees maybe even older than China itself, colossal sentients with broad leaves providing shade to those below. Songbirds of every colour darted from tree to tree, each with slightly different feathers, each singing a slightly different tune.

 

Sicheng used to walk here, every year during the Peony Festival with his father, first as a young boy learning to fly dragon-kites on fields of lemongrass; then, eventually, having mastered the art of kite-flying, as a young man racing his father across the sapphire sky. He was here, just a year ago, with his father. He could almost see the two of them here, in the same spot on the grass, almost hear their laughter that once broke the air. Sicheng shared these memories with Jaehyun - there was something genuine, organic, raw about him that made Sicheng comfortable, that allowed him to so easily open up to. It was the sincerity of his smile. His reassuring words when Sicheng felt tense. A gentle but firm hand when it was needed. Sicheng bought two dragon-face-kites from a seller, a slender one with blue scales for himself and a funny-looking red one with bulged eyes for Jaehyun. Sicheng, being the experienced kite-flyer, walked Jaehyun through the basics slowly, as his father had taught him so many years ago. Jaehyun was a natural. Before long, their kites were dancing in the air, carried by the spring breeze, sashaying in the partly-clouded sky. Peony petals in the air. Sicheng wondered if his father was looking down at them, laughing with the two young boys below.

 

✧

 

_You open my heart._

 

❋❋❋

 

On the fourth day, Jaehyun was particularly busy with business and ended up forging deals and bargains until late that night. As usual, Sicheng practiced his dancing to pass the time, and spent the day at the academy where Lady Xiang undoubtedly was despite the festivities. He wasn’t sure what it was - but he felt like dancing, moving his body to express himself, to put in motion the strange almost dream-like state he’d been in ever since a certain bright-eyed man had knocked on his door a few days ago.

 

When Jaehyun finally arrived home that night, Sicheng was about to go to bed, but decided against it as his merchant houseguest looked worn and would probably appreciate company as he ate the bowl of rice and side dishes that Shan had left for him on the kitchen table, accompanied now only by a single dimly-lit candle. Jaehyun relayed to Sicheng the events that had taken place that day as he ate, and lingered on particularly interesting ones - a very old lady that traded him a jade box for a set of his cerulean pottery, a brother that used monthly allowance to buy one of his pearl figurines for a younger sister, a conversation with another merchant from Goryeo that was here selling scrolls of ancient text. Sicheng listened quietly but intently, adding a comment here and there, almost hypnotized by the way Jaehyun so comfortably spoke to him as if they knew each other for several years and not several days. “Come to my room,” Jaehyun had said after dinner, “I want to show you something.” So Sicheng obeyed and followed Jaehyun to the guest room where he slept, as Feng picked up the dishes after them (his servants stayed up as long as he did). He sat on the cold wood floor as Jaehyun clumsily pulled something out of his pack. In his milky-white hands was a fairly large (and noisy) set of silver chimes. The chimes were tiered and arranged asymmetrically in such a way that when Jaehyun delicately swayed at them with a brush of his fingers, they collided together in harmony, creating a dreamy tune along a pentatonic scale that was nostalgic yet mysterious. “Wait,” Sicheng said after the song subsided. “I… I think I know this song.” And he recounted the lyrics to a melody that he thought he’d forgotten years ago,

 

_I speak with my father_

_In a gazebo by the lake._

 

_Recounting tales of old_

_Singing with magpies in the Spring._

 

_Time, like the season, flies_

_A moment becomes a memory._

 

_Yet my heart, in the same place_

_Unchanging as the moon._

 

And by the time he uttered that last word, he was sobbing, had already fallen into Jaehyun’s strong arms. Rocked back and forth like a child with whispers from a deep voice saying  _I’m sorry_ and _It’s okay_. Like he was three-years-old, in his father’s embrace again, safe, protected from the world. With the naivety of a child, of almost arrogance, that nothing could hurt him. He was invincible. But then, suddenly, the feeling of vulnerability, losing his footing. Losing his hero. Taken away from him, delivered to him in a letter by Destiny from Fate. Then, from believing he could conquer the world, to hiding from it. And all he wanted to do was dance. So how did he go from that hopelessness and loneliness to this? To being held again, in the arms of a man from across the sea? And still - all he wanted to do was dance.

 

✧

 

_Thank you for being there for me._

 

❋❋❋

 

On the fifth day, a special Spring opera was showing at the Golden Phoenix Theatre for the Peony Festival. Jaehyun had seen advertisements in the marketplace the day before, and, having forgotten to mention it the day before, brought it up to Sicheng excitedly that morning. _I forgot to tell you about it last night_ , the Goryeo merchant whispered apologetically in Sicheng’s pointed ear as he shook the Chinese boy awake. Do you want to go with me? Sicheng, (who, for the first time, was not angry at being woken up before sunrise), rolling over, answered in a small voice, _I don’t think there’s anyone else I’d rather go with._

 

So that night, Sicheng, already having hastily purchased tickets from a vendor earlier that day, put on his best blue-silk robes and found himself incessantly rearranging his hair in front of a bronze mirror. _Jaehyun_ , Sicheng huffed frustratedly after an unsuccessful battle with his fringe, _how do I look?_ The boy from the peninsula, who was wearing his own wine-red tunic, only chuckled. _Absolutely perfect,_ he’d said amidst the scent of his rose perfume. (Courtesy of Shan, who’d found it in one of the old concubine’s forgotten drawers. _Scents are not inherently male or female, yes?_ Jaehyun had said before spritzing some on his neck.)

 

They arrived at the theatre deliberately early so as to avoid the large expanse of people Sicheng knew would flood the streets as in years past. The Golden Phoenix Theatre was situated in the South-West quadrant of Luoyang in the Capital’s cramped Entertainment District, but surrounded by an open limestone-tiled area adorned with bamboo trees, plum blossoms, and sandalwood benches, making stark contrast to its dense and somewhat grungy surroundings as if to pretentiously proclaim status. Bright red-and-gold lanterns dotted the earth and illuminated the pathway that led to the theatre’s entrance atop a wide flight of stairs, its doors already open. The two boys, standing at the doorstep of the Golden Phoenix, paused. Jaehyun looked over his shoulder, locked eyes with Sicheng, and, raising his brows, offered an outstretched hand, a little bashful. Sicheng’s gaze flickered at the masculine hand, pupils shaking, then back into Jaehyun’s dreamy gaze - and, finally smiling, took his hand into his own. Fingers laced, Jaehyun was jubilant (and perhaps a little relieved), squeezed the Chinese boy’s slender hand in his own. Smiling, laughing, the man-from-across-the-sea gently pulled Sicheng into the light of the theatre, the soft scent of roses trailing behind them. That feeling of a missing piece of a forgotten puzzle sliding into place.

 

The opera was beautiful, accompanied by an orchestra of the robust _Pípá_ , bitter-sweet _Èrhú_ , and timeless _Gǔzhēng_. The lead actress played the role of a lady-turned-heroine in a war following her father’s death, taking his place in the army under the guise of a man to save China despite the odds. Her story of unconventional truth struck a chord in Sicheng, and he knew Jaehyun had picked this opera for him. _For them_. Though admittedly, it was hard to focus even on the beauty of the music when its beauty did not, could not, compare to the man next to him, the man that held his hand gingerly in the darkness of the theatre, that set off firecrackers to the rhythm of his heart. They walked home that night in silence, hands locked, nosy onlookers be damned.

 

✧

 

_I'm happy when I’m with you._

 

❋❋❋

 

On the sixth day, Jaehyun was to meet Sicheng at the dance academy after he was finished business for the day. _Do you have a surprise for me?_ Jaehyun had asked in between sips of jasmine that morning. Sicheng couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious, and had only smiled. _You’ll see._

 

Sicheng had always danced in his spare time, practicing new and old techniques, modifying choreographies or creating them, or sometimes simply _just dancing_ , pure improvisation motivated solely by expression, spontaneity, freedom of body. Passion. (But of course, at the discretion of Lady Xiang, who did not hesitate to give criticism and kept Sicheng polished.)

 

When he’d just started learning dance as a child, he had trouble with free dance. He was young, naive, not yet jaded by the world. Indeed, in those early formative years, Sicheng had no experience with love, hate, remorse, regret. Pain. Loss. Renewal. And how could he have? He didn’t _live_ yet. Gradually over the years, his life began to be coloured by memories, good and bad, and his dancing developed more complexity, more _depth_. Slowly, he began to understand how to better deliver a performance, by harnessing his own emotions, using them as fuel for his body’s movements. Dance is a form of expression that links the mind and the body. Your passion, in whatever form, in whichever way you choose to shape it, flows from the inside, out. But what is passion, anyway? Is it just intense emotion? Energy? Whatever it was, Sicheng himself didn’t know, only that he was good at expressing it, was praised for it by Lady Xiang, fellow students, audience members. His father.

 

Throughout the past week especially, he’d been even more passionate, or perhaps, just as passionate, but fueled by a _different kind_ of passion. Which also hadn’t gone unnoticed by Lady Xiang. His dance lines were sharper, his body more free, limbs more relaxed. It was impossible for Sicheng to identify the exact reason for this passion, how, _why_ his body moved so differently now than before, before a young man from across the sea whose life mirrored his had knocked on his door one spring evening. But it did.

 

If there was anything Sicheng had learned these past few months, it was that things that happen in life don’t come with explanations. They _just happen_ , for better or for worse. It is us that injects meaning, us that interprets with inherently flawed personal values, ideals and beliefs, us that perceives the universe each through our own foggy lens. Mankind is unique in that way. So, when a father passes, you mourn, you grieve, but you don’t ask questions. You cherish good times, bad times, memories of poetry and sweets and kite-flying, experiences that shaped you into who you became. And when a young man with almond-shaped eyes in the shape of quarter-moons shows up at your doorstep, you open the door, and if you wish, you open your heart.

 

So each day of the festival Sicheng had danced, his movements a little different with each passing day. His body didn’t need to understand to express. Understanding comes from the mind. Expression comes from the heart. And Sicheng’s heart seemed to be pulling him in a hundred-thousand different directions. Yet, curiously, to a common destination.

 

Sicheng harnessed this passion, this fuel, and created a new choreography. His own. A rather difficult choreography, even by Lady Xiang’s standards. Involved some complex sequences, some acrobatics, a bit of tumbling.

 

But he could do it. Wanted to do it.

 

“Hard at work?” A familiar deep voice echoed through the empty academy, breaking through Sicheng’s neuroticism. _Jaehyun_. He was finally here. The sun was still in the sky, but was nearly meeting the horizon, colouring the sky a brilliant blend of deep pink, orange, and red. The academy was roofed but had open walls, and the warm colours of the sky seeped into, saturated the inner walls of the academy, gave everything a warm glow.

 

Sicheng spun around, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You came,” he said perhaps a little too blankly, panting. Maybe the setting sun could hide the blood rushing into his cheeks. “This is Lady Xiang, my teacher since I started dancing as a little boy,” he gestured to the old lady sitting at the far end of the floor, _Pípá_ in lap. For a moment, Sicheng swore that he saw her old eyes twinkle, if even a little. Lady Xiang rarely, if ever, spoke to her students outside of dance critiques. But after nearly a lifetime of being her student, Sicheng could read her facial expression and body language like a book. He was sure that went both ways.

 

“Oh, how rude of me! My apologies,” Jaehyun instinctively bowed. “I’m Jung Jaehyun of Goryeo. I’m a travelling merchant that has come to visit Luoyang, in its Spring Glory, to trade my goods during the Peony Festival. I’m a potter.” He glanced over at Sicheng, who was now instinctively stretching his arms. “Sicheng has been kind enough to let me stay in his family’s compound for the week.” Lady Xiang nodded in response.

 

“Um,” Sicheng bit his lip, “so, thanks for coming. I prepared something.” Lady Xiang raised a painted eyebrow. “I mean,” Sicheng cleared his throat, “I prepared a dance. For you.”

 

Jaehyun’s eyes widened for a split second, the corners of his lips slowly curving upwards into a smile. “Well,” he said, taking a seat in front of Sicheng on the dance floor, “I’d love to see it.”

 

“Okay,” Sicheng replied a bit nervously. He stretched his arms and legs one last time, closed his eyes. Slowed his breathing. Felt the warmth of the setting sun over his skin. Then opened his eyes again to glance over at Lady Xiang, gesturing that he was ready, that she could start playing the _Pípá_ to the tune he’d wanted. And he immersed himself in it, let the music envelop his body and soul, let it inform the will of his heart, guide his arms and legs. Sicheng tried to lose himself into his own world, which inevitably became a world of Jaehyun, who became all he could see, feel, sense. Jaehyun, who shared so much in common with Sicheng, choosing to live in his own unconventional truth. Jaehyun, whose smile shone as bright as the stars. Jaehyun, who understood Sicheng’s pain, his past. Jaehyun, who at the moment was sitting entirely still in front of Sicheng, watching him with sharp eyes and an unmoving gaze that were focused on him and only him, as if he were the most precious gem in the world. This was his moment, _their moment_. They were all that mattered in the universe right now.

 

And Sicheng started to dance.

 

First with heavy steps, gradually becoming lighter.

Discovery, curiosity. New growth.

_I feel at ease when you are by my side._

 

Arms twisting, pushing and pulling. Out, then in. In, then out.

Ripples being made once more.

_You open my heart._

 

Hands slicing through the air, clenched fists raised to the sky.

Becoming more intense.

_Thank you for being there for me._

 

A flying ring jump, a leap into the air of joy.

Now rising. Recovery. Happiness.

_I'm happy when I’m with you._

 

Then finally a frontal aerial that defied gravity.

Passion, peaking. Is this what it feels like to fall in love?

_I want you to stay._

 

And then the music stopped. And Sicheng, panting, sweating, curled into his ending pose. Then he stood up, and Jaehyun was no longer sitting from where he was before, watching him. No, Jaehyun had gotten up at some point during the dance, walked closer to Sicheng without him noticing. He was too enveloped in his dancing to realize. But now, Jaehyun was standing right in front of him. Face to face, eye to eye. Closer than they’d ever been before, barely a finger’s length away. Sicheng, still breathing heavily, body exhausted from the passion that flowed out of him like a river to the sea. Jaehyun, with an unreadable expression.

 

And in the next moment, _their_ moment, that would forever be encased in time - the space between them became smaller, until there was no space left. Jaehyun, his hands coming up behind Sicheng’s head and neck, gently pushing them together.

 

And their lips met halfway.

 

Sicheng sharply inhaled, eyelids fluttering, then closing. He felt Jaehyun’s entire body up against his, pressing against every crevice of his own, and his hands running through his hair, then down his back. Everything that either of them had felt, had developed, had held back the past week, now released in a fury of passion. Jaehyun’s essence entered Sicheng’s every orifice, his touch, his taste, his scent. He took it all in, what was so inherently, organically _Jaehyun_. Like the colours of the setting sun that covered the academy in its brilliance, Jaehyun’s essence also seeped into, saturated Sicheng’s being, covered it, caressed it. And in that moment, in that final moment, Sicheng at last understood what passion was. What it meant. Passion isn’t something that can be explained. Only something that could be felt.

 

After what felt like an eternity, the boy-who-danced and the boy-from-across-the-sea came apart.

 

“Thank you,” Jaehyun whispered, touching their foreheads together.

 

Then they embraced. And Sicheng, for the first time in a long time, felt whole again.

 

✧

 

They both knew that they wouldn’t be sleeping alone that night. Jaehyun pulled Sicheng by the hand into the darkness of his room. They wouldn’t light any candles tonight. He tugged Sicheng onto the padded floor of the guest room where he slept, Sicheng let himself be pulled and gently pressed onto the floor, let Jaehyun be on top of him. Jaehyun held the sides of his face with two hands, kissed him hard on the lips. Their breathing became ragged, uneven. Wanting, full of desire. Though it was dark, and Sicheng could barely see, he could feel Jaehyun holding him, kissing him, the weight and detail of his muscular body pressed firmly against his, could smell his scent like the strongest incense, was intoxicated by it more than the strongest wine. And their growing hardness beneath, the friction that ignited a fire in Sicheng’s belly, an intangible itch he desperately wanted to resolve. And there was only one person in the world that could resolve it in the way he wanted. They undressed, slowly.

 

“You have no idea how hard it was these past few days,” Jaehyun whispered into Sicheng’s ear, shooting him straight to Heaven. “I want you so bad.”

 

Sicheng muffled a moan in pleasure, feeling Jaehyun’s naked body on top of his, the thickness of his arms, the broadness of his shoulders, his defined chest and everything that came under it, every outline of every muscle. “Then have me.”

 

They made love, tenderly.

 

❋❋❋

 

On the morning of the seventh day and last day of the Peony Festival, Sicheng woke up next to Jaehyun, both facing each other. Jaehyun was still asleep. He didn’t make any noise when he was sleeping. Sicheng looked at Jaehyun’s face slightly illuminated by the morning sun that was just starting to peek through the sandalwood window, inspected it, studied it. His almond-shaped eyes, tall nose, soft peony-pink lips, all in perfect balance with each other. Framed by his high cheekbones, sharp jawline. On a canvas of dewy, alabaster-white skin.

 

Sicheng never really thought much about his attraction to men. It was never something he’d ever discussed with anyone. Not because he was scared of the backlash or of becoming alienated, or even persecuted by the Emperor if anyone of status was to find out (well, maybe a little of that), but because he never truly thought about it. Yes, he could appreciate women like the other men around him. There were beautiful women, women that dressed nicely, smelled good, were good at what they did when pleasing men. Well-versed in poetry, faithfully re-filling cups with wine, painted nails and red lips that could explore dark places. But he never truly understood the appeal of pleasure houses, of singing girls, of concubines. Not as a child, and not now. Sicheng preferred Jaehyun’s hardness to the soft body of a woman, and the masculinity of his mannerisms, boyishness of his behaviour. His deep voice that reverberated throughout the room when he laughed. The broadness of his chest and shoulders, the roughness of his hands. The way Jaehyun made him feel safe. And Sicheng liked the way Jaehyun was the same height as him, if not a little taller, and wider, more muscular. His scent, richer, muskier than the scent of girls. He knew that it wasn’t normal for a man to want the love and attention of another man, but that was simply the way he felt. Was that wrong? Perhaps, some would think so. But couldn’t love exist in more than one form? Who could define what love was? Who could say that the way Sicheng feels about Jaehyun was not love? The recipient of one’s love might be different, but the intent, the essence, the source of that love, is always the same. It comes from the heart. From something called passion.

 

Sicheng took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He rolled over, laying eyes on Jaehyun’s packs that he brought with him seven days ago, when he’d first come here, knocking on his door. Not knowing who, what was on the other end of it. How it would change both of them. Sicheng looked at all of Jaehyun’s trading goods, old and new, neatly organized in a corner of the room (fortunately, they hadn’t knocked any over last night), and realized that Jaehyun really had done a lot this past week. He’d managed to sell or trade most of his own works, and they were mostly gone - now replaced by an assortment of others, all sorts of expensive, rare, and beautiful items that Jaehyun could make a living of in Goryeo for the next while.

 

And then it hit him, hard. That Jaehyun had to leave. Was supposed to leave. Today. Sicheng knew it would happen, was going to happen, right from the beginning, but pushed it, locked it up into a deep, dark corner in the back of his mind.

 

“Good morning,” Jaehyun said in an even deeper and huskier voice than usual, rubbing his eyes. “Slept well?”

 

Sicheng turned around to face him, snapping out of his stupor. They were both still lying down, still under the silk sheets. Still unclothed. “Had the best sleep ever.” That was the truth.

 

“Great.” Jaehyun smiled, his eyes forming crescent-moons again. Sicheng smiled almost reflexively. But did Sicheng have to lose this? Was this going to be taken away from him again? His smile faltered, slightly. Then Jaehyun’s did, too, an air of concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Jaehyun, I have to ask you something,” the Chinese boy spoke in a tone as serious as he could muster without crying. “When you go back to Goryeo… Will you write to me? Letters?” He tried desperately to stop his voice from shaking. “Will you remember me?” A single tear streamed down his cheek. He hated himself for this. He always did cry easily, ever since he was a child. He hated crying. It made him feel even more vulnerable than he already was.

 

Jaehyun furrowed his brow in concern. He wiped Sicheng’s tear away with a soft brush of his thumb. “How would I forget you if I never leave?” Jaehyun said, smiling again, a little weakly.

 

Sicheng’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. He stared at Jaehyun for a long moment, incredulous. “Wait, are you not…” He felt dizzy, his throat was dry. “What do you mean? You aren’t leaving?” He exclaimed, in disbelief. “Your whole life was there!” His voice quivered, hands shaking. “Your work, your village, your family--”

 

“Sicheng.” Jaehyun cut in gently, holding the Chinese boy’s hands firmly in his own. “Sicheng, I lived in a small hut, in a very small village by the sea. Alone. I… I was so lonely, for so long. Sicheng, you know how that feels right? The only thing that kept me alive… the only reason why I’m still here living, here in the world today, is because there was… _is_ a small piece of me that wishes that my father would some day return from the sea, although I know, in my heart, that he’s gone. I could never admit that to myself. I still can’t. But that small sliver of hope… that’s what I was holding onto. This,” he gestured to the pile of his remaining works, a sack of coins, his bargains, his traded goods sitting in the corner of the guest room, “is all I have. I have no family in Goryeo.” Jaehyun looked into Sicheng’s eyes, so tenderly, so lovingly, as if Sicheng were more precious than a newborn babe, than all the gold in the world, more divine than the Son of Heaven himself (was blasphemy, could be executed for saying that aloud, but damn it all). And each word Jaehyun spoke next, as he was holding Sicheng’s shaking hands, as he was looking into Sicheng’s wide eyes, sincere, raw, truthful, rang into Sicheng’s ears like a timeless poem. _“You are my family now.”_

 

★

 

And so, Jaehyun never left.

 

Shan and Feng helped set up a potter’s wheel in the field behind the compound for him to work on his pottery, and he stored his tools and materials in a mahogany-wood shed they built together, along with Sicheng. Jaehyun was still able to do what he loved (and be with the person he loved). Eventually, years later, he saved up enough money to purchase a vacancy in the Town Square, next to Little Xuan’s Noodles, and established his own thriving business called “Big Xuan’s Fine Ceramics” (Sicheng came up with the name - Jaehyun’s name in Chinese was Zai-Xuan, after all). Jaehyun’s bowls, plates, and chopsticks became widely known in Luoyang for their quality and its unique Goryeo-inspired designs, and quickly became the standard in many restaurants (including Little Xuan’s). A tall white-cerulean and green-jade vase with hand-painted peonies, which he spent an entire spring working on, had even attracted the attention of an Imperial Princess, and she'd purchased it (or rather, took it, for free) for her own private quarters in the palace. Jaehyun couldn’t be happier (and neither could Sicheng).

 

Sicheng continued dancing. He was still active at Lady Xiang’s academy, and often participated in recitals that were held publicly at the Town Square (he also gave Jaehyun private dance “recitals” on the fifth day of every week, at Jaehyun’s request). One day, Sicheng was scouted outside of the academy and ushered to an audition for an opera at the Golden Phoenix. He ended up taking the role, and afterward, started a career in theatre, taking on extra positions at first and gradually working his way up to supporting roles and finally, leading roles. Sicheng also began actively teaching the academy’s newer recruits and younger students. One day, Lady Xiang, who'd seen Sicheng grow from the beginning, asked for him to take over the academy as its head instructor. Sicheng vehemently opposed the idea, but when Lady Xiang passed a few years later, he immediately took on the role in her honour.

 

In the coming years, Shan and Feng eventually passed on, and Sicheng had their bodies cremated, as they had requested. He placed their ashes in the finest, most beautiful containers, which Jaehyun had made specially for them, and placed them at the altar beside his father and mother.

 

And every year, Sicheng and Jaehyun would celebrate the Peony Festival in Luoyang, in the splendor of Spring, with the Son of Heaven and everyone that came to see the Glory of China.

 

When he wasn’t dancing, annoying Jaehyun at Big Xuan’s Fine Ceramics, or teaching at the academy, Sicheng wrote poetry. One day, he felt compelled to write one that he and Jaehyun would remember forever.

 

_Do you remember_

 

_Those Seven Days to Heaven? We bloomed with the peonies_

 

_You held my hand under the sapphire sky_

_That Spring Day_

 

_Painted me, who was gray_

_with your colours_

 

_I want to be your lover until the ends of the earth_

_Until the summers snow_

_and the winters blossom_

 

_You, the man from across the sea._

**Author's Note:**

> I thought for a LONG time about where to take this fic, and how to end it. There were a lot of alternative endings I had in mind, but I decided it would be the best for everyone (and I'm talking about my characters and the readers lol) for Jaehyun to stay. It also makes the most sense for him to stay if he had nothing back in Goryeo. And who could leave WinWin like that?!
> 
> and if you're wondering, Sicheng's dance choreography that I wrote (the one he prepared for Jaehyun) was inspired from his debut dance teaser where he showed off that beautiful Traditional Chinese dance sequence.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think~~~~ ^^


End file.
